The good news, though, is that the Franciscans have sent a new and better man to lead their order in Verona, who brings with him a group of new initiates. Already the Scaliger is talking of moving most of the major services during the Palio away from the basilica of San Zeno and into the Duomo of Santa Maria Marticolare. This promises to put the collective noses of Verona's Benedictines quite out of joint. They are already enraged that the Franciscans have the Scaliger's ear in religious matters. Now the disciples of San Francesco seem to be winning the political war. Perhaps it is all in the name — Cangrande's baptismal name is Francesco. I can already hear the abbot ranting.
That is unfair, though. My new patron is an enlightened man and is creating a garden of culture and learning in Verona, a new Caput Mundi. It is fitting that he listens to the disciples of Francis more than Benedict. He is a modern man, struck in a modern mold.
In women's news, I was invited (but sadly could not attend) the long-delayed wedding of Verde della Scala (sister to the odious Mastino and the oblivious Alberto) to Rizardo del Camino, the twin of the wedding of Cecchino della Scala to Rizardo's sister that was so rudely interrupted back in September. Since there is now a treaty in place and peace looms at every corner, the wedding went forward at last. I must say, these attempts at strengthening political ties by marrying of one's young children is growing ever more cynical. I despair that my new patron shall have any good off either of these matches — del Camino will take the dowered lands and do as he pleases. Wait and see.
If I am reduced to writing of uninspired weddings, I have clearly prevaricated and procrastinated long enough. Cara mia, it is time you heard the worst. But I do not know how to phrase the words — I, who am said to have the power to control men's souls with my thoughts, cannot find it within me to soften the bluntest of cudgels — my son Pietro will never run again. The magnificent doctor of the Nogarola palace, a famous knight named Morsicato, working together with the Scaliger's own physician, Aventino Fracastoro, was able to save my child's leg, it is true. But he has a third leg now, the polished mahogany crutch that balances his movements. Pietro walks as slowly as I–I with my curved spine, bowed by the act of writing. And he has taken to wearing breeches, not hose, to hide the injury from view. Alas, nothing can hide the crutch and the horrible slowness of his gait.
He has not spoken to me of this cross he now carries. For all the world he has nothing but a smile. Yet that smile carries a wound of its own, one that I cannot imagine how to heal. When alone, he moons like a man in love, or struck with a fatal disease. He has tasted a knight's life and, finding it to his liking, discovers it suddenly denied him. It is a level of Hell I never envisioned. He is my son, yet he belongs among the Nine Worthies. I am consumed with admiration for him, both for his deeds and for his cheer in the face of misfortune. But I do not know how to help him, poor lad.
I have written to my friends at the University of Bologna — I imagine he'd be uncomfortable studying in Padua. I don't know if that is the answer. I am a man whose life is the written word, but is he? I can't send him away, the choice must be his, but how I wish to help him!
Can you advise me, Beatrice? How can I tell my son there is more for him in life than the cavaliere's sword? How can I heal the wound in his smile?
Distinti,
Dante A.
Antonia was indeed weeping when she finished her father's letter. Pietro — a cripple! And never a word of it in his own letter. How dreadful, how brave!
She tried to imagine her brother through her father's eyes. Dante had nominated him to stand with Hector, Alexander, Julius Caesar, Joshua, David, Judas Maccabeus, Arthur, Charlemagne, Godfrey Bouillon — the Nine Worthies. Instantly Pietro was transformed in her mind. No longer the plodding, pedantic boy she had known as a child, he now stood clad in golden armour, with a Roman eagle-banner in one hand, the longsword of Charlemagne in the other. Imposing upon that frame the crutch, he was transformed again into a noble sufferer. His wounds were glorious. Her brother was now a brother to Christ.
From that lofty perch it took a few moments more for her thoughts to return to earth. But soon her mind found its accustomed trail. If Pietro's going off to university, who will take care of father now? Not Poco!
There was only one answer. I have to go. I have to join them in Verona. Finding her bottle of ink and a fresh sheet of paper, she began to write her reply…
Shortly thereafter Gemma Donati came looking for her only daughter. "Antonia? Franco and his brood will be joining us after all, so-"
But the girl wasn't in the study, having left the house to find a rider to bear her message to her father. Unknowing, Gemma picked up the two letters her daughter had left out. At first she was amused by the contents, then startled. "Oh, Durante…"
Gemma wept until she heard her daughter in the entryway below, arriving just as her brother-in-law rode up with his family. Daubing her eyes, Gemma rose and placed the letters just where Antonia had left them. She knew what her daughter would ask, and was tired of refusing. Gemma's attempts to find her daughter a husband were a desperate ploy to tie the girl to Florence, so that at least one of her children would remain with her. But she knew the power of her husband's words, made only stronger in Antonia by his absence. Realizing it was to be her last Christmas feast with her only remaining child, she descended the stairs with a slow, heavy gait.
Padua
The same moment Antonia was leaving church, the Count of San Bonifacio was entering one. Not a grand Paduan church, but a mean and humble one outside the city walls. Unknown to him it was the same one Cangrande had used as a rendezvous months before. On this holy day it had only two occupants. One, a frightened-looking priest, stood at the door. The other knelt in prayer by the altar. Nodding to the man of God, the Count crossed himself and sat down, resigned to a long wait. If he could enlist this penitent's aid, his cause might yet be won. He had the key to this man's spiritual vault. The Pup had given it him.
After hours of painful kneeling on the stone floor, the figure rose. And rose, and rose. He was as tall as he was thin, a grotesque figure made moreso by deliberate starvation. He crossed himself before turning about. "You didn't come here to pray," he said at once, accusing. "Your presence here is profane." His voice was deep and rich, odd to hear from such a strange figure.
"Merely secular," said the Count.
"I told you no," said the penitent.
"And I respected that," said the Count. "But things have changed."
"Your defeat is nothing to me." The man wore a medallion with an odd cross surrounded by pearls. Some pearls were missing.
"No reason it should. Still, you live so far from the city I wondered if you'd heard."
"Heard what?"
"Cangrande has taken in a son — a bastard son — and named him his heir."
The skeletal penitent remained entirely still, yet a change came over the chapel. Suddenly it was cold, as if a pall had swallowed the sun.
"A bastard heir?"
Seeing the fire in the penitent's eyes, the Count knew that at last he had found the wedge to drive the other man into action. Checking his smirk, he began setting his plan in motion.